Monty, his part in my victory - Spike Milligan [20]
He insisted on giving us cultural lectures. A sergeant, who shall remain nameless, said “H’eyes front! now then, today the Major will be talking about” — (here he referred to a piece of paper) — “Keats, and I don’t suppose ne of you higgerant bastards knows what a Keat is.”
Edgington and I decide to get our tent as far away from Jumbo as possible, so we found a distant Wadi over which we rigged up a canvas cover. Efforts to sabotage Jumbo were partially successful, we managed to impregnate the reed of is clarinet with soap, and he gave his batman hell over it. But it was by the Battery Cook Ronnie May that real revenge was wrought. May had collected dried goats shit, pounded it into a flour, mixed it with real flour and mashed potatoes, this mixture appeared on Jumbo’s plate as rissoles, which he ate and asked for more, “Now he really is full of hit,” said May.
The sky was blackening. It was going to rain.
“We could do with it,” says Edge.
“Do what with it?”
“For a start you can accept it.” The heavens opened a rain deluged down.
The Concise Oxford Dictionary says:
— WADI: Dried u water course. Filling quickly in rainy season.
We didn’t have the Oxford Dictionary, but we found how remarkably accurate it was as we and our belongings floated out on a wall of water; all around were yells and shouts as tents were flattened.
“My bloody fags are down there,” said a drenched, mud reddened Edgington as he dove into the raging waters. Waist deep we ran among the flood grabbing kit and throwing it to high ground. It ceased as suddenly as it started.
“Why did it stop — 15 minutes more would have seen us to fucking Portsmouth.”
Sgt ‘Griff’ Griffin, one of the great characters of the Battery. He is here seen wearing either long shorts or short long trousers
23 June 1943
With trees spaced its length, the road to Set curved hither and thither — we were at a thither part.
“Are those Poplar trees?” said Kidgell.
“Very,” I said. We were bumping our way to the first rehearsal of the Concert Party.
We had been ‘talent-spotted’ the night of the French ENSA do by L/Bdr Bennett — he had told L/Bdr Carter, “You must hear these lads.”
Outside the Municipal Theatre, there are posters advertising:
GRAND CONCERT. 2 AGRA CONCERT PART PRESENTS THE JOLLY ROGERS IN STAND EASY, IN AID OF THE ROYAL ARTILLERY BENEVOLENT FUND.
It’s thirty two years since then, and so far no benevolence has reached us. The stage was alive with scruffy Gunners hanging up scenery; tuning the piano with a pair of pliers is the MD Gunner Sabin. Edgington confronts him.
“Are you a trained piano tuner?”
“No, that’s why I’m in Africa.”
Ken Carter is on stage. “Up here,” he said, and led us back stage. “These are your dressing rooms.”
“We don’t need ‘em. We come ready dressed,” I said.
First Night of the Concert
July 28 1943
Diary of Driver A. Fildes:
First night excited but OK:
We heard that the French ENSA concert party had one over a cliff on their way back to Algiers and had been in dock for three weeks, I prayed Mlle Villion’s boobs were alright.
The Opening Night was attended by top brass and high ranking local French officials whose sole purpose in life was neither to laugh at, nor applaud anything. Back stage was alive with last minute crises.
Carter is hurrying in all directions, his hair falling out in handfuls, Lance Bombardier Reg Bennett is saying ‘Fuck Show Business’ over and over